Yesterday evening I sustained a heinous injury to the second toe on my left foot in what shall hereafter be referred to as The Mower Incident. There is some household debate about whether or not I will lose the nail (and I’m rather surprised he’s arguing the point with me, considering I skipped right over the part where I usually wail about how I’m going to die from it, which is a huge improvement in his life with The Wife with Hypochondriatic Tendencies, but anyway).
So, The Mower Incident.
Which sounds pretty terrible, right?
Until I add that it was The Bubble Mower Incident.
Then it just sounds Other Such typical.
And I lose your sympathy.
And you start arguing that I’m not going to lose the nail so just calm down, Shelby.
And then we can no longer be friends because you just don’t seem to understand me anymore.
And that’s the real tragedy: not only am I going to lose this nail, but I’m going to lose you, too.
And The Child is losing the bubble mower.
We’re all just a bunch of LOSERS desperately in need of something to lift our spirits.
Like something tasty. Because is there really a better conversational pairing than disgusting toe injury and food?
The toe injury part covered already, focus now on these words:
Tequila Lime Chicken.
It’s a fantastic recipe that The Other Valley Girl discovered for us earlier this summer, originating from Pioneer Woman and posted here. Absolutely worthy of trying out on your grill THIS WEEKEND, Sisterhood.
I’m making it for the second time tonight. Mixed up the marinade early this morning. Even dropped a teaspoon into the blender when I was adding the Kosher salt and an hour after fishing it out by hand, as I was en route to an optometrist appointment, I realized that my hands still bore a lovely, residual tequila-lime-garlic-cilantro fragrance. Which really was a lovely smell. Except maybe not appropriate for 10:30 in the morning.
As if the pressure of the eye exam wasn’t enough (I always feel like I’m failing the exam when I cannot read the tiniest letters on the screen. I want to study for it, know I could ace it if I just had the chance to study. It’s like that recurring dream about being back in the last semester of law school and discovering that I forgot to attend a class all semester and it’s too late to drop it so I have to take the final exam blind (get it, blind?) and I want desperately not to fail so that I can graduate, start working and repaying the student loans, and then decide I’d rather be a stayish-at-home wife/mom.) now I was going to fail it AND smell like tequila. And lime. And garlic and cilantro. But most noticeably, to my paranoid mind, tequila.
But if the doctor noticed, he didn’t mention it. And right eye passed. Then left eye passed so well that my prescription actually decreased from last year’s. Must be a fluke.
So I left there feeling pretty good.
Finished up the make-ready work at a rental property and handed the keys over to the new tenant, without incident. Which was a drastic improvement over the make-ready and key exchange last week where every water-using appliance in the kitchen was leaking/spewing in the 24-hours leading up to the move-in. And when those were resolved and the new tenants arrived? The Child announced with a hand covering her bottom that she needed to use the potty right then. For big business. In their newly-cleaned, ready-to-go house.
Anyway. Today she didn’t do that; today she held it until we left.
So we drove up the street to the golf course club house and I took her in to potty there. Praised her for waiting and being such a big girl. Directed her back toward the front door, walking her by the cashier and the man who works the golf course maintenance. The man who just happens to be the plumber-on-the-side who I just met last week when he fixed all of the leaking/spewing water issues at that other rental property.
Nodding/smiling hello and walking her to the front door, less than 10 feet away from them.
And right in front of the super-powerful fan they have blowing on the front room to keep it cool in this ridiculous heat.
Right in front.
Of the super-powerful fan.
Oh? Did I not mention that I’m wearing that comfy little t-shirt dress today? The one I picked up a decade ago at Express and that I still l-o-v-e because it’s black and white and soft and cool? The one that’s mid-thigh length?
THE ONE THAT THE FAN BLEW RIGHT UP OVER MY BUM IN FRONT OF THE MAINTENANCE FELLOW.
I screeched “yikes!” and yanked it down. Looked to see if he or the cashier noticed. She was turned away from me, but judging from how big his eyes were before he looked me in the face and chuckled, I’m going to have to say YES. YES, HE DID.
And on top of that? Not even my first accidental bum-bearing of the year. Two months ago, different skirt, different location, same result. Except no witness. That I saw anyway. And certainly not that I knew.
Sent a text to The Husband, who was playing golf, forewarning him of the potential that his wife’s rear-end may be club-house conversation later. He was simply beside himself with shock and embarrassment:
At this point in my String of Other Such Incidences, I don’t think either of us would have been shocked if that fan had blown my entire dress right off my body and shot it out the door and into orbit and I’d had to skeedaddle to my car in only my undies, with The Child trailing along and never missing a beat in her forty million questions about “why” and “how” and “what.” Embarrassed, sure. Me anyway. But shocked? Nope.
None of this is even what I intended to share with you today. But it’s a pretty good picture of what the last two weeks have been like. One thing after another: an injured appendage here, a bared bum there, and before I get a chance to tell you about it, suddenly here we are two weeks later. With another injured appendage and another bared bum story.
Wait. Actually, I did intend to share the bit about the tequila lime chicken with you today. Because for two reasons:
(1) It is exponentially yum and I need you to try it. You need you to try it, too, only you probably didn’t know that. And that is part of what I’m here for: to tell you what you need that you didn’t even know you need. (You are welcome.)
(2) I want to share with you the musical ingredients reminder that The Other Valley Girl created for me when from the grocery aisles I sent a text asking for her to tell me again what was in the marinade.
I am now ruined on written grocery lists and will require every list to be in the Songified app. I am also ruined on looking anything up for myself and will be asking The Other Valley Girl forty million questions about “why” and “how” and “what” just so I can have her songify more answers for me. Songifying for everything!
Including the synopsis of the events over the last 24 hours:
It adds just the right touch to the summarization of the Other Such.
And now if you’ll excuse me: I’m meeting some friends at a pool for what I hope will be an embarrassing-incident-free, late-afternoon playdate. And if it’s not? Well, then I shall songify a report for you later, Sisterhood.